


control

by thecanary



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Again, POV Second Person, Self Harm, Stream of Consciousness, as do i, eating disorder mention, i wrote this in 2016, like its my self insert w me as Murphy im coping dog, my spellcheck app hates it, uhm whats that other thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 09:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14102733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecanary/pseuds/thecanary
Summary: Murphy needs to feel in control, and really he only has himself to take control over. TW for self harm? this is basically a fic of Murphy's stream of consciousness before, during, and after self harming. Please don't read if yr gonna get triggered, your comfort etc. comes first don't read this to trigger yourself it's not well written enough for that.





	control

you're out of control. or rather, you never had control. you weren't in control when you got sick, you weren't in control when your father died, your mother's alcoholism was out of your control. a shiver runs down your spine at the thought of it. you control nothing, save for yourself. although back at arkadia, you still have no power. the adults don't trust you, and none of the others of the 100 do. well, why should they? you're out of control, a force raging too wild for them to stop. and they sure did try to stop you.

through your life of being dragged and pulled and pushed and bossed around, you have realised one thing: you have control of yourself. okay, not when you're being tortured, or hanged, but other than that, you own yourself, and can do what you like. this is what slows your breathing when you panic ; this, and the cold blade of a knife in your pocket. you enter a tent - yes, somehow, you still lived in a tent, something about not enough rooms in what was left of the ark, it made sense when they told you. so rather, you enter your tent, and sit on the ground. scar tissue shifts as you move, making your skin crawl with memories you wish you didn't remember.

pulling your knife out of your pocket, you take a good look at it, letting it catch light from the single ray that is entering through the opening of the tent. the blade of it shines orange, thanks to the tent fabric, and it all feels oh so surreal. that's why you do it though. to make the floating sensation go away. that feeling that you're floating but being pulled around like a puppet on strings, a puppet on ropes, a rope made out of seatbelts, a seatbelt keeping you sailing in the air, gasping for air

air air _air_. you can't breathe.

you

cant

breathe

 

the air in the tent is too hot, it takes a deep breath - and a nick to the finger - to get oxygen flowing again. you relax, your chest rising and falling heavily as you watch beads of blood fall from your finger into the palm of your hand. although it stings, that only brings a small smile to your face. you're hurting, and no one else is anywhere near you. pain is the strongest emotion, and you are in control of it.

you know people will notice the marks of self injury on your arms - you walk around in short sleeves enough. but it isn't difficult to pull your pants down, just past your hips, ignoring as they brush past cuts and scars from previous incidents of you being in control of yourself. the knife is sharp, that much you keep prepared, and if people give you weird looks for having to sharpen it too often, who cares? letting the blade rest on your hip bone - too prominent? probably. malnourished? likely. unhealthy? depends on who you ask - you wait a moment, before jerking your hand back, the skin (the skin? your skin), your skin, giving way easily, letting the knife cut through like butter, leaving a red line, that you know is deep enough to leave a mark, a reminder that you are in charge.

power... tends to go to your head.

some amount of time later - you wouldn't be able to tell someone if they tortured you (hey hey it's okay for you to say it, you have been tortured) - your hips are red. sure, you can distinguish the lines, you can already guess which will scar and which won't, which you'll have to watch in case they're too deep, but it feels good to have control. being in control of yourself is the best you're going to get, and you're not giving it up any time soon.

you stick bandages to each side of your hips, and walk out of your tent, wiping your knife on your already blood stained pants before slipping it in your pocket. you feel in control. for now. nothing matters when you are running high on the adrenaline of losing blood and you know that no one will care. no one will care. no one cares about you.

the strongest emotion that you can imagine anyone having about you is hate, anger, loathing, fury, except in the case of your death. maybe then they'll let a smile reach their faces. scratch that. everyone would be better off with you dead. if you had died, at any of the times when you could have if you had just died why couldnt you have just died why are you alive why arent you dead. those are the questions that run through your head but you know, really, you are a coward, you could never kill yourself, no matter how close you came to death you wouldnt take the offer.

death is the only unknown that you are too scared to try to know.

that doesnt mean that you wont risk it. it doesnt mean that you wont risk your life, that you wont run around doing _whatever the hell you want_ but it does mean that when it comes down to it, you'll value your own life over anyone else's, at least in the heat of the moment. how _fucked_ up is that? even though you care about yourself, it doesnt stop you from hating yourself. why else would you hack at yourself with a knife? why else would you avoid eating rations? (some else needs them more probably and you need them less. why can't you just waste away? you could just waste away? how _happy_ would it make everyone if you just _wasted away_ ?)

so happy. they would be so happy. sure you have been pardoned for your crimes, but no one has forgiven you, no one trusts you since you drove charlotte to suicide (even if in your dreams she tries to return the favour), no one trusts you since you suffocated connor and myles, since you betrayed the camp to the grounders. ( _since you_ let _Finn_ _massacre the grounders. yes you let him of course you let him its not like you were yelling and trying to make him stop trying to make it stop trying to make the gun stop trying to make time stop_ )

your mind races, and you know you cant just try to cut the thoughts out of your blood stream this time. instead you walk out of your tent - the sun is long since set, and the darkness surrounds you. (is it a metaphor. a metaphor for darkness filling and fogging your brain, making you too tired to do anything than cut yourself and throw up what little food you do eat. a metaphor for the darkness surrounding you the death surrounding you the death you cause. ) no matter what your brain says, its not a metaphor, its just what happens on the ground, once the sun is gone, the darkness comes, and if you didnt take advantage of the light while it was there, then the darkness is all you have. (alright that one might be a metaphor)

wandering around the camp at night (still called camp jaha, it would be bad to rename it when everyone had realised that jaha was still alive. a bit of a _"hey you died so we named our camp after you but now you're alive you don't get the reward"_ ) you cant help but feel lost. you dont belong here, even if you dont belong anywhere else. its times like these when you wonder what would have happened if you had made your decisions differently. if your stupid _fucking brain_ hadnt made you yell at the girl, if you hadnt threatened wells (if you hadnt _failed_ at threatening wells), then maybe you'd never have been tortured, maybe mbege wouldn't have died, maybe maybe maybe. its a pipe dream, but maybe if you hadnt messed up so badly, bellamy would still care about you. _bellamy might care about you as much as you care about him._ now thats the true pipe dream. bellamy, ladies' man extraordinaire, caring about you. john murphy, unoriginal name, and the only thing unique about you is how awful you are. how marred your skin and memories have become from scars, the night time yelling fits. really, its a wonder you havent been removed from the camp at all. and yet, you havent. you try. you try. _you try and try and try and yet no one_ no one _no one will give you a second chance._

**Author's Note:**

> If you need help find emergency services applicable to yr area etc.


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